By Ann K. Schwader
28 March 2005
The one who rode it died. We know his shape
from scans our elders made before the Fall:
entombed by accident or failed escape
from orbit, he is otherworldly tall
& twisted in a pallid shadow-knot
within his spheroid sealed forever by
reentry's kiss of peace. Sublime & hot
as seraph breath, it seared across the sky
that night they came—& hovered—then withdrew
again from all our wondering, wounded world.
The fact of them undid us through & through:
when dogmas die, their war-flags come unfurled.
So many saviors rose to separate
the wheat from chaff, the chaff from bleeding wheat,
that few survived such grace to contemplate
this blameless catalyst of our defeat.
What star begot these bones, we may not learn
until the rapture of their azure light
returns to claim the faithful. Though we burn
in our ascension through that last good night,
dark energy beyond waits cool & deep.
Our souls shall taste nirvana in such sleep.